A Friend from England (17 page)

Poor Oscar, I thought, doomed forever to seek out electricians in hostile territory. There was a rattle of wheels in the corridor, and the door opened to reveal a maid with a supper tray. Immediately Janet and Rosemary got up, one to arrange pillows, the other to supervise the placing of the bed table. There was even an attempt, unbearable to my eyes, to raise Dorrie in the bed, as if she were incapable of doing so herself. So must they have played with dolls in their far-off childhood, and in turn with their baby sister, busying themselves with these important tasks that they had seen so often performed by adults. I think that they would even have spooned the soup into her mouth if she had let them. I could see that she would have to drink every drop, while they waited, their faces sharpened by anxiety, their eyes soft with love, to see if, while they so waited, her appetite had returned.

I was glad to note that this little rite of passage was successfully negotiated. The soup, and half of the omelette, were eaten, although the hand that played with the bread roll merely picked it to pieces, and the mouth trembled slightly. But who would not be nervous here, I asked myself, my foot in a spasm of cramp, my back to a radiator. And I doubted if she had been away from home for many years, certainly never to sleep in a strange bed, and alone. If she trembled, it was surely with fear of the night to come. Women of such simplicity, and here I included her sisters, were always unarmed before the prospect of solitude, frequently expressed their alarm at noises in the night, were
suspicious of strangers on their street, on their territory. It was left to my generation, and Heather’s, of course, to exert an imperviousness to risk or danger that was perhaps not entirely felt. Women have come a long way, of course: we can all be left alone at night now. But sometimes it seems a high price to pay. We can also open the door cheerfully to strangers at any hour, deal with obscene telephone calls, and mend fuses. It has never occurred to me to wish that someone else would do the locking up, leaving me free to water the plants or make a last hot drink. It has never occurred to me because I do all these things as a matter of course. But Dorrie and her sisters still belonged to the protected variety, safe to express fear, anxiety, distress. Dorrie, I could see, although the youngest, was the strongest of the three. She was so used to absorbing the objections of others that she never thought of voicing any of her own, and was perhaps the better off for that reason, was certainly easier to live with. And perhaps she would come through this ordeal better than they would. Of course, I know one reads these terrible stories that anxiety stored is nefarious, that one should shout, scream, throw things at walls, ‘express one’s emotions’ (when? where?) in order to avoid certain conditions that I refused to think about. After all, I was in line for them myself.

Oscar came in as Rosemary was trying to tempt Dorrie with the smoked salmon. ‘You take it, Rachel,’ she said in a disappointed voice. ‘Eat it for supper. Have you got some brown bread at home?’ That was another thing I liked about them, their concern for my next meal. Oscar bent over the bed and kissed Dorrie on the lips. She looked up at him as if all her fears had been laid to rest. ‘It’s all right, girls,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay with her now. And here’s Rachel. Nice to see you, dear.’ He always noticed me, made me feel wanted. But it seemed to be the signal for us to leave, and the way that Dorrie
clung to his hand made it obvious that they wanted to be alone together. They still had the air of a devoted, no, of an enamoured couple. That kiss on the lips had been fervent, exclusive of the rest of us. We rose from our chairs, as if in discretion, as if not to witness their communion. Kisses were planted on the forehead of a now placid Dorrie, scarves and gloves gathered, chairs placed back against the wall. Oscar had succeeded in turning that cruel light away from the bed and stood waiting for us to leave. The room now looked intimate, habitable. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ Janet said, subdued now with the implications of the separation to come. ‘I’ll be with Rose this evening, if you want anything.’ ‘We’ll ring you later to say goodnight,’ Rosemary said, mouthing to me behind Janet’s back, ‘She worries so. Better to put her mind at rest.’ I waited politely outside the door, so that they could worry in concert for a few more minutes.

‘Well, she looks quite comfortable,’ said Janet sadly, when they at last joined me. Rosemary, her mouth drawn down at the corners, looked unlike her normally contentious self.

‘I think you’re both more worried than Dorrie is,’ I rallied them. ‘And I’m going to take you out and find you a hot cup of coffee. I think we all need one.’

They brightened at this, and we spent quite a pleasant half-hour in a café in Marylebone High Street. I gave a sturdy performance, in which I did not quite believe. When I saw them to their car, Rosemary kissed my cheek, and pressed the damp parcel of smoked salmon into my hand. ‘So nice to see you, Rachel,’ said Janet. ‘Will we see you again?’

‘Oh, I dare say I’ll look in tomorrow,’ I replied. ‘If we’re not too busy at the shop.’ I waved casually and left them there in the dark street. It was difficult to imagine how they would spend the rest of the evening.

The following days saw us all in attendance. The
operation was delayed for some reason; nothing seemed to be happening, and gradually the atmosphere relaxed. Sometimes, sitting in that room, I could have persuaded myself that we were back in the drawing-room in Wimbledon, particularly when the husbands joined us, or when Oscar’s brother, Sam, looked in, bringing with him the cold air of the street and a faint smell of cigars. Oscar said very little, but sat there, smiling faintly, as if in the enforced seclusion of these strange days he and Dorrie had been returned to their original love dream. And when he gave an almost imperceptible nod to his brother, we all obediently stood up to leave, bidding each other goodbye and promising to meet there the following day. But just when it seemed as if this might go on for ever, we heard that the operation was scheduled for the morning of the next day but one. Anxieties sharpened. Dorrie, her hand in Oscar’s, looked trusting enough, but I noticed that she had spilled a little tea or coffee: there was a small pale brown stain on her pink bed-jacket. This told another story from her warm but tired smile. When I kissed her goodnight, promising to see her the following day, she raised herself in the bed and put her arms round me.

‘Dear little Rachel,’ she said. ‘Get home safely.’

All of this put somewhat of a strain on my nerves. Although I fell almost restfully into those trance-like but convivial gatherings round the bedside, I began to wonder how well I would stand the pace if they were prolonged indefinitely. I particularly began to wonder how long it would be before Heather came home. By my calculations her weekend should be over by now, although of course she knew of no reason for hurrying back. It just seemed more and more incongruous that she had not been told, and that I was there in her place. I felt like the reserve in some key football match, accepted as a necessity, but with regret. I have to say that the others expressed no regret: I think they were genuinely
pleased that I was there. Strangely enough, Heather’s name was not mentioned, but this was out of tact. I gathered that there had been some disagreement over the reasons for her absence. Janet, or Rosemary, probably Rosemary, had expressed strong disapproval that she should not be there, and Dorrie, of course, had defended her daughter. I imagined her becoming quite upset over Rosemary’s remonstrances: I imagined agitation, tears coming into her eyes, Oscar intervening, Rosemary in retreat. Thereafter Heather’s name was not mentioned, although whatever sadness was in the air was to do with her, her remoteness, physical in this case as well as mental, her unknowingness. Oscar’s burdens must have been heavy at this time, knowing what he knew, yet not once did I hear him even sigh, courteous even in his preoccupation. There did seem to be a curious sort of dispensation hovering over the two of them, as they held hands like lovers, like children, so deeply attuned to each other that they even breathed in unison. With Oscar there, Dorrie would eat, and not just to please him either; Oscar was the first to notice that she was tired, even before she had realized it herself; Oscar gave us the signal to leave. But although it was clear that they had never been closer, I felt that Heather should have been there.

There was another reason for my longing for her return. Oscar and Dorrie had an air about them of fated lovers, and their passion was too naked for one of my sceptical persuasion. I felt that it should be kept within the family, although I trembled to think of its effect on Heather’s benighted expectations. I also felt that the pronounced absence of Michael would inevitably come to public notice, and, knowing what I did, I did not want to be put in the position of having to divert enquiries or spread a smokescreen of polite ignorance whenever the subject was raised. In the event I found out that he was not expected to reappear; when his name
was mentioned, Janet and Rosemary shared an identical moue of distaste, while Sam surprised me by saying, ‘How could you? I mean, how could you ever have taken him seriously?’ The news had leaked out, or rather a sanitized version of it had been released; it was not that everybody knew everything, but that everybody knew something. Poor Michael, too readily accepted by his new relatives as a sort of part-timer, was now thought to be expendable. Indeed, their original affability had turned quite suddenly to a sort of tired impatience: it was as if they had bought an article which they thought they needed, had found it to be faulty, and could not wait to return it to the shop. Michael, I could see, would be returned to the custody of his father.

When I discovered that this attitude had been agreed upon, and was indeed shared, I was rather shocked. After all, it was one thing to marry an idiot, quite another to discard him after so short a term of trial. I judged this behaviour characteristic of the rich, and surprisingly cynical. I would not have expected it of them. But on reflection I saw that it had been urged upon them by fear. The fact of Dorrie’s little illness had reminded them that Heather’s place was with her mother. Indeed, the renewed, or perhaps perpetual, flowering of the love that Oscar and Dorrie had for one another seemed to call her home, as if any lesser emotion, any simulacrum, had no place in their scheme of things. I knew that beneath the placidity that each urged upon the other in those days at the Clinic they yearned for her. And if the end were approaching for them, then they had to have her back: her marriage, always an affair of convenience, had now become inconvenient, and must be cancelled as quickly as possible. It was a solution of sorts, I saw, and perhaps a clever move. For what Oscar and I knew – and I was sure that we were the only persons in that room who really knew what was wrong – could in fact never be
made public. Not one of them could have stood it.

I spared a thought for Michael and his effervescent father, but even I thought it better that we should be denied the opportunity of getting to know them further. I saw them endlessly drifting across the Spanish plains, or rather testing out the appurtenances of time-share apartments, bouncing on cheap mattresses, settling down in partly furnished rooms, calling irritably for mulish Spanish servants, banging down the telephone, their
bonhomie
resumed as soon as an acquaintance came into view. I believe they were immensely successful at what they did: at least money would be no problem. But their high-octane accessibility would surely decrease, giving way to the tired smiles of a pair of professional comedians. Or rather the father would assume this attitude: the son would be indulged, as if he really were a little retarded, whereas he was in fact seeking revenge for his spoilt childhood and would continue to exact forfeits. And the father would find his anxiety still intact, when he had thought to pass it on to others: he would become rueful, cynical, while obtaining his own pleasures when and where he could. His ladies would turn loud with annoyance as he habitually scuttled home to be with his son: they would profess amazement at the closeness of the bond, provide the names of psychiatrists, finally put up with it all – for he would choose women to whom not much more was likely to happen. The fact that we all disliked him seemed to me, if anything, to heighten his rather threadbare appeal. He was the real victim of this unfortunate affair, and it was hardly likely that he would seek the same solution on another occasion. He was, in effect, a doomed man.

But perhaps we were all doomed. The day before Dorrie was due to have her operation found us grouped around the bed, running out of blandishments, suddenly short of things to say. The tension was becoming
acute, and Oscar and Dorrie mutely held hands for comfort. There was a sadness in the room, and also an impatience, a desire to yawn, fidget, talk in a loud voice, even to eat. The air was getting stale, still redolent of Dorrie’s honeysuckle scent, but used up now, and mingled with the odour of her lunch, and the perpetual bedclothes. I found it intolerable. ‘Dorrie,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you like to take a turn in the corridor? I’m sure it’s bad for you to be in bed all the time.’ She turned her head to face me (surely the eyes were larger, the sockets a little more pronounced?) and over my shoulder looked towards the door, which at that moment opened to admit Heather.

The great smile that burst upon Dorrie’s face told me what had happened before I confronted the cause for it. There was a general murmur of congratulation, as if the curtain had just gone up on an amazing spectacle. Oh, well done, I thought, perhaps a little sourly: the prodigal returns.

‘Hello, Mummy,’ she said. ‘What have you been getting up to? Gosh, it’s hot in here.’ And she moved over and opened a window, something that none of us had dared to do.

In contrast to the rest of us, who were by now a little sickly, she looked marvellously well. She was wearing her chestnut suit and had a small purse on a long strap, obviously Italian, over her chest like a bandolier. She was different, somehow, or maybe it was the effect of coming into this room from the wider world. She was assured and businesslike, not a bit perturbed by the spectacle of us all sitting like mutes: either that, or she was putting on a good show.